Wristwatch

The hands of my wristwatch felt like two, strong jute ropes, threatening to tighten, threatening to suffocate. She lay there on the hospital bed, her wrinkled eyes closed, a respiratory tube between her nose and her dried lips. I stroked her snow white hair, heaved a sigh and sat on the couch beside her bed. I remember when I had first seen her. Wisps of her ebony hair, flew with the wind. Just like in the movies. Only, she was more beautiful than any actress I have ever seen. I remember how she would ruffle my hair, laugh and run. I would run after her, trying to catch her. How I would laugh every time she cracked a joke, not because the joke was funny, but because of her weird, donkey laugh.

I looked at the wristwatch she had gifted me on our first Valentine’s Day as a couple. Time seemed to reverse its path. I called to my mind, the day when she got married, sad tears in her eyes, and how beautiful they made her look. The glow on her face when she gave birth for the first time and the joy when she first became a grandmother.

The nurse entered the room. “Any minute now,” she said. I wiped the tears that had escaped my eyes unknowingly. The nurse gently took off her respiratory tube. “Goodbye,” I whispered. The lines on the heart rate monitor became steady as I watched her leave me.

I wish I could have been there for her during all this time, without having to just watch sadly by the sidelines. I wish that her father would have understood how much she meant to me. I wish that I would have been born of the same caste as her. I wish that we didn’t have to be torn apart and I wish that I had tried harder, fought for her. There is so much that I wish for, knowing that I can’t rewind time. Knowing that I can’t bring her back. My first love.